Are You Addicted to Drama

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**Addicted to the Drama**

There are over 6 billion people on Earth (and climbing, because why not?). World peace — that ever-elusive utopia — means every single one of us would need to live in harmony. No conflict, no wars, no side-eyes over dinner. Just a global chorus of Kumbaya. But maybe, just, we should scale back the ambition a little. Let’s try two people coexisting peacefully under one roof before we start holding hands and singing across continents.

Enter: **Samuel Twain**, age 54. Ivy League brilliance, Yale-embossed diplomas on the wall, former law professor, now a rich-as-hell philanthropist who saves orphans by day and emotionally combusts by night. To the world, he’s a man of class, intellect, and generosity. But behind closed doors? Oh, it's a soap opera — the kind you swear you're not watching, but somehow you know all the plot twists.

Sam is married to Jane. Beautiful, composed, the type of woman who probably folds towels like it's an Olympic sport. They have two kids: Jacqueline, who’s in therapy (because of course, she is), and Gail, who’s learning that “normal” is just a setting on the dryer. On paper, they're the picture-perfect family — champagne toasts, matching holiday outfits, and smiling Instagram selfies. But dig an inch beneath the surface and it’s less “modern fairy tale,” more “emotional demolition derby.”

Let’s talk about sex. Not because it’s fun, but because it’s the gaping crater in their marriage. According to Sigmund Freud, who had a lot of time and not enough hobbies, men think about sex every three seconds. For Sam, it might be every two. Sex, or rather the *lack* of it, has become the cold war between him and Jane. So they did what every doomed couple does when intimacy dies: they hired a relationship counselor. Because nothing says romance like airing your grievances in front of a stranger scribbling in a leather notebook.

Spoiler alert: it's not going well.

Sam’s version of working things out involves isolating himself in plush hotel suites and pacing dramatically through his Hamptons estate like he’s the star of a tragic indie film. Rumor has it, the man is so stressed he’s been seen metaphorically — if not literally — wearing a straitjacket. Oh, the burdens of the emotionally tormented elite.

But let’s rewind the tape eight years back to the beginning of the chaos. That’s when **Dawn** walked into his life. She was a secretary, because of course, she was. Sweet, sexy, and just naïve enough to believe that office flirtation with a married man would end in a fairy tale. The chemistry between Sam and Dawn was immediate, the kind that burns bright enough to justify very poor decisions. She saw him — powerful and wounded — and he saw her — young and uncomplicated.

Congratulations, Sam. You’ve officially cast yourself in your midlife crisis screenplay.

Now, here’s the real kicker: Sam is still “in love” with Jane. Or at least, he’s *nostalgic* for what they used to be. Dawn? Oh, she’s in love with Sam too — tragically, painfully, clingily. And yet neither woman dares to leave him, and he doesn’t have the guts to make a decision. So instead, they all just marinate in misery, because that’s easier than being alone for five minutes.

Jane, the queen of self-denial, won’t throw Sam out. Why? Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s inertia. Maybe it’s the mortgage. And Dawn, poor sweet delusional Dawn, holds onto Sam like he’s a lottery ticket that’s just a few numbers off. Everyone’s waiting for something to change, but no one’s willing to be the villain in their own story.

So, what do we call this little saga? A tragedy? A rom-com gone wrong. A cautionary tale? Nah. Let’s call it what it is: *addiction*. Not to drugs or gambling — oh no, that would be too easy. They're addicted to the **drama**. The tears, the secrets, the long, theatrical stares into nothing. It’s the emotional equivalent of junk food — toxic, satisfying in the moment, and always regrettable the next day.

Maybe Freud was wrong. Maybe we don’t think about sex every three seconds. Maybe we think about conflict. About chaos. About the thrill of dysfunction. Because peace? That’s boring. That’s two people paying bills, doing laundry, and occasionally touching feet under the sheets. But drama? That’s thrilling. That’s messy love triangles, clandestine rendezvous, and a therapist on speed dial.

Maybe the Black-Eyed Peas were on to something. “Where is the love?” they asked. Probably buried under decades of unresolved trauma and passive-aggressive text messages. World peace? Pfft. We can’t even get two people to agree on dinner, let alone unify six billion.

So, the next time you see a happy couple smiling at brunch, just remember — beneath that shared avocado toast might be a burning wreck of unresolved issues. And behind every closed door is a Sam, a Jane, a Dawn, and a therapist praying for early retirement.

World peace can wait. We’ve got drama to unpack.

Let me know if you want a version that’s toned down, more humorous, or styled for a specific platform (like Medium or a blog).